Love Is More Thicker Than Forget
by Laqueus
Summary: She was a bright speck of gold within the belly of a shuddering evil. [BOTW, Zelink]


_AN: Title taken from the e.e. cummings poem of the same name. __Written as a birthday gift for tetraxlinkfan1 over on tumblr._

oOoOoOo

He was dying when she saw him last. He was dying, and though she had sent him off to the Shrine of Resurrection, bound up in her hopes and carried on swift Sheikah feet, there were still so many things that could've gone wrong in the interim. A thousand-and-one worries had nipped at her, like fish around a carcass, but she'd had no time to pay them any serious heed, too wrapped up in the moment with the tasks that'd lain before her: getting the Master Sword to the venerable Deku Tree, and facing off against the boiling miasma that was Calamity Ganon. Afterwards, it'd been the second task that had initially kept her mind occupied and diverted, binding that great evil to the ruined castle and holding it down, like a hunt master would do with a dog run rampant. And throughout it all, she'd been supported by the freshly-unsealed divine power within her, golden threads twining through the air. It seeped in and out of her skin, and mingled with the thatch of her hair as flurries of golden motes surrounded her. She was a bright speck of gold within the belly of a shuddering evil.

Years had passed, and she had remained in that state. Years had passed with one eye of her consciousness trained on the Shrine of Resurrection. Years had passed, and it'd continually remained still and silent, a dormant place with a spark of hope slumbering inside. Years had passed, and the worries had seeped into her mind, slipping past barriers and nibbling away as they always had. '_What if it didn't work? What if he has succumbed to injury? Putting the life of one dear to you in untested technology, placing him within there with your papery hopes acting as the packing material? Oh, foolish, foolish girl!_' they hissed. As ever, she had brushed them away, sending them scattering like fish in a pond. No. No, that could not be the outcome; she had faith in him, and faith in herself; the feeling was a solid beam that ran through her, both of them supporting one another like a pair of interlocking trees, like she and _he_ had once done, years before.

Years had passed-

-and he had awoken.

She had known of it the instant it'd happened, something twisting in her mind with a firm _clunk_. It was no more deniable than an earthquake rending a mountain in twain, or an ancient tree falling in the forest with a thunderous crash; an event from which there was no turning back, changing everything simply by dint of happening.

'_Thank the goddesses,_' she'd thought, invoking the sacred triumvirate for the first time in a century, relief sitting in her chest like a heavily-scented bloom. And again: '_Thank the goddesses._'

Around her, the evil had roared and writhed in response; she in turn had cuffed it back into submission, where it sank back down, quietly growling to itself. It hated the castle, she knew that, with its restricting walls and pinning turrets, but it hated _her_ most of all. _In that way, we are even matched on both accounts,_ she'd bitterly thought. To it, she was the hated whipper-in, keeping it from running where it wished and blighting what it wanted, cracking her switch across its snout when it ran out of line. Time and experience had turned her technique into a sharpened blade; when it came to fighting the evil, she'd become very, _very_ good at it. The only problem had been the ever-growing feeling of fatigue piling upon her shoulders. Oh, if only her strength were boundless! Then she might have held that evil there forever! But what would be the use of that, keeping things in some goddess-forsaken stalemate that benefited no-one, as the land slowly died under evil's grip? What would be the point of being blessed with a mind that sought to find out the _why_ and _how_ of the world, if only to let it moulder and go to waste in a stagnant act of senseless self-sacrifice that solved nothing?

Such thoughts were an easy fantasy to build, harder to see out of. She'd shaken herself, reminded herself of the reality of the situation. _He_ was awake, bound up with her hopes and faith, and he would come. She had been sure of it.

She hadn't been the only one waiting.

Her father had hung around like a stale smell, the last fading notes of an old song on a summer's evening. Regret bound him there, and for an eon he had prowled around the Great Plateau and the Shrine of Resurrection, an old guard dog who refused to lie down and be done. When she'd first espied him, a mixture of horror and contemptuous anger had suffused her; _my fault, this is my fault, oh father, I am so sorry, I am so sorry_ mingled with _I tried and I tried, always your methods and only your methods, and look where it has gotten us both._ In the end, she'd run the entire gamut of emotions for her father, but time was a heavy stone, emotions were a blade, and soon the feelings were blunted away to nothing. In time the king had been rendered into just another figure, faithfully keeping watch with her.

When he'd awoken once more, her father had been there, cloaking himself, though it was a poor disguise for any who knew the king in his heyday. And that detail, right there, was how she'd first known something was wrong. He had been familiar with her father, one of the rare few denizens who was, his swordsmanship and role as her knight affording him that position. Her father's face should not have been a mystery to him.

Yet it was.

It was with a slow, dawning horror that she realised that his memories had emptied themselves from his head, trickling and seeping away like water from a cracked vase. Those tied to the body had been saved, anchored in place by blood and bone; when he swung a sword it cut a familiar arc through the air, one borne from experience; when he powered across a lake, it was not the floundering of an inexperienced swimmer, but the steady, sure strokes of one trained; when he vaulted onto a wild horse, his knees knew just where to grip, his hands knew the best way to soothe. The personal ones, however, had flitted, and the realisation was a dagger to the heart.

Despite that, she doggedly kept the faith. He would come. To doubt after all this time would be an insult and a disservice to them both.

Still, she could not help her mind from sifting through explanations, trying to understand and figure out _why_. Old habits were a wild horse: hard to break. Was it trauma? Time? The Shrine not working as intended due to disuse? Had there been some error when made when he was ensconced within? It was a mystery that she alone, locked in the belly of evil with no resources, could not solve.

When her father had finally petered out – the dog laying down to rest, the song's echoes faded – despite all that had gone before, she felt a simple thankfulness towards the man. The old ruler had outlined a path to Impa, a ghostly track of trodden grass across a field, and he would be able to follow that. It was a spider's thread that would lead him to her, and hopefully his lost memories along the way.

So his journey had begun, watched over by an unseen sentinel.

oOo

Was it possible to fall in love with someone anew? Like walking down a familiar path, and being surprised once more by its gentle twists and turns, the pleasant topiary surrounding it, the birds and animals that made their home there, and the views it afforded? From her seething prison she had watched him - from his first uncertain steps out into the sunlight after one hundred years of slumber, to the moment when he'd gazed at the castle, heavily laden, and his jaw had set in a particular line that'd said_ it's time_ – and she had felt old feelings stir within her, a dancer performing their steps once more.

The rational part of her mind had queried this, like it queried many things. It was its job, after all, a faithful old retainer throughout everything. _Are you sure your feelings in this situation are genuine?_ it asked. _Are you simply feeling positive towards him because he will eventually bring you relief from your burden of a task? Do you fixate on him simply because of loneliness?_

Not that she'd really had time to be lonely, and time itself had been transfixed into a strange thing for her; slipping and sliding, and not quite progressing in the way it'd once done for her, out there in the sun.

Her response had always been the same - _of course, of course, of course -_ a hymn and a prayer to him and her. All of it was true, mixing together in a myriad of ways, but the base and majority of it was love; something she'd never let herself admit whilst previously free. Furthermore, she _would_ be relieved when he came, and it was easy to feel positive towards him for it, but they were mere motes in the grand scheme of things, nothing more than small currents in the ocean. Besides, who in that same situation would not have felt the same way? It was a mark of the sentient, the _normal_ to feel relief, to respond to the words 'Help is on the way!' with gratitude.

oOo

After a century – _so long, it'd been so long_ – he had been returned to her. To all of them, really. So his journey passed by, with her watching, and waiting, and warning when the moon was crimson and the blighted rose, and all while fighting. He'd met with citizens, assisting them with their problems; he'd scuttled in and out of the might Divine Beasts, purging the hateful blight from within them and freeing the Champions' souls. She'd watched him cook, watched him rub down horses after long rides, saw him smite monsters. She'd watched him through a thousand quiet moments in a thousand quiet places - though it'd been a shock when on one occasion he'd started to disrobe before she'd registered what was going on, flushing and wrenching her vision away. He'd still been in her awareness, a bright, living spark made red-hot in her imagination, and she'd chided herself for not noticing the facts sooner, simple curiosity rendering her oblivious. Honestly, in retrospect it should have been obvious; him buying a new set of clothing, and then sequestering himself in a quiet area? _Goddesses_. After that she'd made certain that there were times of privacy – still keeping him in her awareness, like a reclining cat watching a bird - for she knew better than anyone how constant scrutiny had felt.

But above all, she'd seen him _remember_. She'd felt her heart lift with each old place he'd visited, as he'd stiffened slightly and stared off into the middle distance, his eyes ticking around in thought at the memory leaking back into his mind, before he'd relaxed, back in the present once more. Afterwards, his footsteps had been heavy with reflection.

He'd remembered, and with each memory he'd journeyed ever closer to her.

'_Soon,_' she'd thought to herself. '_It will be soon._'

Whether that would be her ever-ebbing strength finally failing, or his arrival, she hadn't been sure.

oOo

In the end, the evil was a stuck pig, a struggling old boar that'd been run to ground, writhing and frothing as it faced its doom, and she was the one who bore the boar spear. They'd eyed one another up, her with calm assurance, it with nothing but malice and hatred within its tiny eyes. Rising like a hawk, it'd soared into the air, ready to stoop upon what it'd thought was prey, before descending, descending-

The light had erupted easily from her hand, the memory of her mothers and grandmothers flowing strongly through her like a sweet wine, as a shining ball of divinity swelled within the tainted air.

The boar spear descended.

The death-bellow of the boar rang out, mingling with the sound of horns.

The hunt was complete.

oOo

Now he stands before her once more, haggard and bloodied, but very much alive. The sky is fading from an angry, virulent purple into a cornflower blue, and oh, it is good to feel the sunlight upon her skin once more, to simply be able to stand and not have the constant mental pressure of keeping something in check. To not have to _fight_.

Despite both his fatigue and the trials he has just been through, she notices there is a lightness about his features, something that could grow into a smile if he'd let it.

_Relief_, she thinks. He looks _relieved_.

Truth be told she feels the same, and goddesses, it feels good, both of them mirroring one another in spirit and soul. Two long pilgrims from a different era, now at the end of their trek.

She speaks - the first words between them in over a hundred years - but it is more a formality than anything else, because in that moment she _knows_ the answer. There is a heartbeat of a moment, then two, where the words hit his ears, sinking in, and for a second something within her sours and begins to feel afraid. One moment he is standing still, the next there is a brief impression of his arms beginning to drift away from his sides in an uneven v, and then he surges forwards, arms that have scaled mountains and swum lakes wrapping around her in a firm, fierce hug. It is a simple, automatic thing to mirror him once more, her arms coming up to encircle his frame; a fond, errant thought flits by: _There, now you are trapped by me, and I am trapped by you._ In that moment she wishes to hold him forever, to keep this living body with its shifting muscles and bones, wrapped under skin and self that she loves so dearly, within her arms for all eternity.

His voice in her ear is still the same as ever, even after all these years, albeit a little hoarse from the exertions of the recent battle.

"Of course I remember you. I've done nothing but, the entire time."

Something within her breaks at those words, a positive rush of emotions surging through her.

It is unclear whose legs give out first, his or hers, both carrying their own brand of exhaustion, but they somehow end up sinking to the floor together. There they stay, kneeling in the grass, the decorum of their past lives that bound them into their roles dropping away like a discarded robe.

Eventually they both pull away, and it is at that point that his eye drops to her dress, already marred, but now mirroring the bloodstains on his own tunic.

"Oh," he begins. Seeing where his words will be going, she cuts him off.

"I've never really liked this dress, even with the associated experiences," she adds, her tone light, but implication sardonic; something the nobles of old would have had conniptions over. There is a beat of silence, then a laugh bubbles out of her at the absurdity of it all, and after a second his own expression cracks, and he is laughing too. They both look a sight, and yet he was ready to apologise over a touch of blood? It is silly, and conscientious, and endearing, and she loves him for it.

The sound of their laughter is sweet and strong, and it carries into the open air, rising into the endless blue slate of the sky.

Eventually they peter out, and once more their bodies have both somehow sagged, this time into slapdash sitting positions; a far cry from the formality of court.

"It's nice to be free," she murmurs without thinking.

"Mm. It is," he agrees, layers of meaning hiding underneath the words.

Emboldened, she takes his hand, and it is with a certain delight that she notices his own fingers responding and sliding to better interlock with hers. He sighs softly, and the sound is one of contentment.

The grass rustles around them, birds are singing in the trees, and for once in her life, she feels at peace with everything.

And there, in an open expanse of grassland near an old ruined castle, two young people finally relax for the first time in over a century.

oOoOoOo

_AN: __This was only supposed to be a message-length fic, but before I knew it, it'd spiralled out into this because I have a lot of love for Zelink stored within me like a fine wine. _


End file.
